Supposed to Happen
by Dr. Mini Pie
Summary: Seto Kaiba can't fix every problem, but he does what he can. One-shot.


**Doctor's Note:** Sometimes, when you're missing something that's far away, you have to remake it in your heart. - Dr. MP

Warnings: Very mild language.

* * *

From the time he was small, he'd felt the need to "do something about it." Whatever "it" was at the time—the un-mowed lawn, the broken tire swing, the little boy who suffered at the hands of bullies—once the bug caught him, "it" never lasted for too much longer.

That drive had never left him. Although it'd been misdirected for a long time, it had never left.

But now, today, the thing he had to "do something about"—the thing he had to _fix_ —evidently he didn't have the courage to take it on.

He rested a hand on the gleaming façade of his stunningly sophisticated virtual pod. All he had to do was climb in. That simple. He'd done it more than a hundred times. Everything was ready—everything was in order—tested and tested, time and again.

What was the hold-up? Why couldn't he bring himself to climb in?

Well, he knew _why_.

But he had to do something about it.

 _Screw_ courage.

* * *

What used to take upwards of an hour now took only seconds to load. He stood perfectly still, his eyes closed, as the ground materialized beneath his feet. He listened, expectant, for the birds to begin chirping—yes, the _Enter Cue_ —right on schedule. A family of robins...two sparrows...and a tiny chickadee warbling away from the shrub behind him. All there. Vivid, authentic. State of the art—

Ugh—he was so used to defaulting to a swift and analytic frame of mind. This was _real._ It had to be real. Forget the programming for half a minute. That light breeze that's messing up your hair—it's _real_.

 _Real real real._ Trip over a rock or something. Tear your pant leg. Scuff your knee. It's _real._

He inhaled with purpose, as though he were about to dive underwater. He forced open his eyes.

The quaint backyard in which he stood was buzzing with the activity of spring. Rows of flowers—simple and hardy, but bright—bobbed beneath the weight of busy honeybees. The family of robins sat half in the flowering dogwood tree and half in the birdbath, calling to one another. An army of ants marched bravely over the network of roots that stuck up in the grass. A neighbor's dog barked.

Nature was easy and safe. He was tempted to lose himself in the comfort of it, to lie down and watch the clouds drift past. Cumulus clouds. It wouldn't rain today. Although he _did_ have the power to change the weather if he wanted—

—nope. _Real_. You're not _God_ , for crying out loud.

He focused his eyes on the house in front of him, the house to which the yard belonged.

There was noise and activity drifting out through the open windows. A television was on...someone was doing dishes. And singing.

Oh, _God_. He couldn't. This was stupid. He should just shut it down.

...but he had worked so hard on this. He was this far in. He had to do it.

He remembered the weight in his right hand. He looked down. The straps of his pale blue backpack trailed in the dirt.

He let out the breath he'd been holding for eons, slung the backpack over his shoulder, and strode across the lawn toward the house.

* * *

The back door was open, and through the screen door he caught a glimpse of the tiny kitchen—the pitiful counter space all claimed by various appliances, none of which matched in any capacity. The wood-paneled cabinets were atrociously retro. Wonderfully retro. Down to the squelch of the wheel on the track when you wrenched open the junk drawer...

The singing was clear and close now. From this angle, he could only see the back of her where she stood before the sink. Her dark hair was tied back, and the sleeves of her cozy house shirt were rolled halfway up her arms. She shook the water droplets from a clean glass and set it in the drying rack.

"Is there any coffee left, honey?"

"Should be a little."

He stumbled back a step at the voices, and his heart leapt all the way into his throat when the tall man emerged from the shadowy hallway and stepped into the kitchen. He wore casual weekend clothing as well. The man stepped closer to the back door to check on the coffee pot, but he froze before he got there. He stared through the screen door.

The pair locked eyes.

"...honey?"

Now his mind clambered for protection— _he'd designed this, he'd scripted it, this was exactly what was supposed to happen, and then she would say,_

"What's wrong?"

 _And she would turn and look, too. And at the same time they'd break into wide grins, surprised, shocked, delighted, and say,_

"Seto! You're home!"

* * *

The knuckles of his hand were white, where he gripped his backpack as though for dear life.

His father swung open the screen door, beaming.

"Get in here and hug your mother," he said.

He longed to. He just wasn't sure if he still had legs.

His mother ducked under his father's arm and spread her arms out. She didn't wait. She embraced him.

With a _thump_ his backpack hit the concrete, and he hugged her fiercely.

 _Real_.

He felt his tightly shut eyes burn with tears.

"Missed us that much, huh?"

He heard his father come near, and then felt his warm arms engulf them both.

 _Real_.

What's...supposed to happen next?

Didn't matter. He was never letting go. This was all.

"Love you, buddy," his mother whispered into his shoulder.

This was all.

* * *

"It's done a number on us, you being so far away." His father took another swig of coffee. "But I'm glad you're enjoying it."

"And doing so well," his mother added, smiling, stroking his arm. "You might already get to do a research project, as a freshman! That's quite something."

"We're very proud of you, son."

"Yes, we are."

He sat on the couch between them. The cushions were far from new, and so his parents sank toward him a bit on either side—but no one minded at all. He hadn't drunk the coffee from the "Home is Where the Heart Is" mug that he held balanced between his knees. The mug was room temperature now.

"Thanks," he said. "We'll see."

They sat in contented silence. Across the room in front of him was an open doorway into the hall, and he could see the foot of the stairs.

He remembered what was supposed to happen next.

"...Hey," he said carefully. "...Is the kid home?"

"Yes," said his mother. "He was up very early for his game, and he wasn't feeling well—he's taking a nap now. If I'd known you were coming today—"

"It's alright," he said. But his mother frowned a little.

"No," she said, "he'll want to see you. I'll call him. Here, dear—" She took the mug of coffee from him and set it on the side table, next to her own mug, not bothering with a coaster—it was an old and beat-up thing. He watched her cross to the doorway and call up the stairs,

"Mokuba? Are you up?"

Silence.

"Your brother's here."

Still silence.

"Your brother surprised us—he's here now."

A heavy _thud_ and several smaller, frantic ones from upstairs.

His mother grinned, a twinkle in her eye.

"Here comes the tornado," she said.

* * *

 _When you hear a woman's voice_ , he'd said, _that's your cue_.

And there was Mokuba. He'd tumbled to the landing, breathless, eyes wide. He stared at his brother—eyes full of wonder, terror, emotion, fully dawning comprehension.

 _It's real, kid. It's real._

"Hey, kid," he said, smiling almost timidly. "There you are."

Mokuba couldn't seem to catch his breath. His wild gaze shifted over to his father, and held.

"You look a little pale, bud," said his father with a chuckle.

Then his eyes found his mother.

"Oh, you're still not feeling well, poor thing," she said, hugging him gently and feeling his forehead.

Mokuba hugged her back—stunned. Utterly stunned.

When he found his brother's eyes again, Mokuba said so clearly with his own tear-filled eyes that he might have shouted it across the room,

 _Thank you._

* * *

The couch sagged under the weight of all four of them. Mokuba had not stopped crying. He sat snugly between his mother and his brother, sniffing and dragging his sleeve across his face. Both took turns soothing him.

"My goodness, little one," said his mother after a while. "You must be feeling bad."

Mokuba shook his head.

"I'm going to get more coffee," said their father, rising from his cushion. "I'll be right back."

"Here, dear," said their mother, "I'll heat it up for you—and I need to take the clothes out of the dryer."

She slowly wound herself apart from Mokuba and stood, smoothing her pant legs.

"Seto, could you hold onto your brother?"

That phrase hung in the air.

The Exit Cue.

"Just for a little while," she said gently, smiling, "until we come back."

He looked at her. For a long time, he looked at her.

Then he nodded.

"I will," he said.

"Thank you, love."

She turned to her husband, not knowing, never knowing, and the pair of them stepped over the threshold and into the hallway, and they fell away.

The sunshine faded. The living room grew dim.

Seto closed his eyes.

He held onto Mokuba, as she'd asked him to, until he felt the cushions under them morph into the cold steel of a virtual pod.

And he lay there until, from across the room, he heard his brother wail.

 _Real_.

 _END_


End file.
